The Pale Horse - Agatha Christie [70]
“But hardly atrophied limbs,” I pointed out.
“Quite, quite. But who says that Mr. Venables’s limbs are atrophied?”
“Well—his doctor, I suppose?”
“Quite. But I have tried to get a little information on that point. Mr. Venables’s doctor is in London, a Harley Street man—true, he was seen by the local doctor here when he first arrived. But that doctor has now retired and gone to live abroad. The present man has never attended Mr. Venables. Mr. Venables goes up once a month to Harley Street.”
I looked at him curiously.
“That still seems to me to present no loophole for er—er—”
“You don’t know the things I know,” said Mr. Osborne. “A humble example will suffice. Mrs. H.—drawing insurance benefits for over a year. Drew them in three separate places—only in one place she was Mrs. C. and in another place Mrs. T…. Mrs. C. and Mrs. T. lent her their cards for a consideration, and so she collected the money three times over.”
“I don’t see—”
“Suppose—just suppose—” The forefinger was now wiggling excitedly, “our Mr. V. makes contact with a genuine polio case in poor circumstances. He makes a proposition. The man resembles him, let us say, in a general kind of way, no more. Genuine sufferer calling himself Mr. V. calls in specialist, and is examined, so that the case history is all correct. Then Mr. V. takes house in country. Local G.P. wants to retire soon. Again genuine sufferer calls in doctor, is examined. And there you are! Mr. Venables well documented as a polio sufferer with atrophied limbs. He is seen locally (when he is seen) in a wheeled chair, etc.”
“His servants would know, surely,” I objected. “His valet.”
“But supposing it is a gang—the valet is one of the gang. What could be simpler? Some of the other servants, too, perhaps.”
“But why?”
“Ah,” said Mr. Osborne. “That’s another question, isn’t it? I won’t tell you my theory—I expect you’d laugh at it. But there you are—a very nice alibi set up for a man who might want an alibi. He could be here, there and everywhere, and nobody would know. Seen walking about in Paddington? Impossible! He’s a helpless cripple living in the country, etc.” Mr. Osborne paused and glanced at his watch. “My bus is due. I must be quick. I get to brooding about this you see. Wondered if I could do anything to prove it, as you might say. So I thought I’d come out here (I’ve time on my hands, these days. I almost miss my business sometimes), go into the grounds and—well, not to put too fine a point upon it, do a bit of spying. Not very nice, you’ll say—and I agree. But if it’s a case of getting at the truth—of bringing a criminal to book… If, for instance, I spotted our Mr. Venables having a quiet walk around in the grounds, well, there you are! And then I thought, if they don’t pull the curtains too soon—(and you may have noticed people don’t when daylight saving first ends—they’ve got in the habit of expecting it to be dark an hour later)—I might creep up and take a peep. Walking about his library, maybe, never dreaming that anyone would be spying on him? Why should he? No one suspects him as far as he knows!”
“Why are you so sure the man you saw that night was Venables?”
“I know it was Venables!”
He shot to his feet.
“My bus is coming. Pleased to have met you, Mr. Easterbrook, and it’s a weight off my mind to have explained what I was doing there at Priors Court. I daresay it seems a lot of nonsense to you.”
“It doesn’t altogether,” I said. “But you haven’t told me what you think Mr. Venables is up to.”
Mr. Osborne looked embarrassed and a little sheepish.
“You’ll laugh, I daresay. Everybody says he’s rich but nobody seems to know how he made his money. I’ll tell you what I think. I think he’s one of those master criminals